Sharon Kay Penman's Blog, page 16

History's hidden treasures and the Night Watch meets the Coldstream Guards

I am always thrilled when a hidden or forgotten bit of history of comes to light, so I was fascinated to learn that a dedicated researcher has established where William Shakespeare lived during his time in London. This is why I think of history as a tide, sweeping in and sometimes leaving a treasure behind on the sand as it withdraws. For example, we now know Eleanor of Aquitaine was born two years later than the traditional date of 1122. We have learned more about Llywelyn Fawr’s children since I wrote Here be Dragons. The mother of Henry II’s illegitimate son William of Salisbury has been identified. And of course it would be well-nigh impossible to top the discovery made in a Leicster car park—the lost grave of Richard III.
And for my fellow Game of Throners, here is a marvelous video of the Changing of the Guard with some help from the Night Watch. Actually, even those of you who don’t watch the show will enjoy this, especially the looks of dawning delight on the faces of the watching tourists.

https://www.cnn.com/style/article/wil...

https://secretldn.com/nights-watch-br...

A great prince

I hope all of my readers in the path of this outrageous April blizzard are staying warm and safe. There is something very perverse about a snowstorm wreaking havoc at a time when we ought to be admiring the cherry blossoms in DC, looking for the first robins, and—for American football fans like me—counting the days till the draft. But at least this unwelcome visitor won’t hang around for too long. Now….onto my true passion—medieval history.
On April 11th, 1240, the Welsh prince Llywelyn Fawr died at the abbey of Aberconwy, having taken holy vows in his last hours; this became quite popular, even fashionable in the 13th century. He was sixty-seven and had ruled Gwynedd since the age of 21. While he never claimed the actual title of Prince of Wales as his grandson Llywelyn ap Gruffydd would do, he was the Prince of Wales in all but name. He is one of the few figures in British history to be known by the sobriquet The Great and I think he well deserved it. He is also one-half of one of history’s better love stories. As many of you probably suspect, in my pantheon of historical characters, he is one of my favorites. Below is his death scene from Falls the Shadow, pages 114-116.
* * *
Llywelyn awoke with a gasp. He lay still for a time, listening to his own labored breathing. More and more his lungs were putting him in mind of a broken bellows, he never seemed to get enough air. He wondered almost impersonally how long they could operate at such a crippled capacity. He wondered, too, how long his spirit would be tethered like this.
A log still burned in the hearth, and as his eyes adjusted to the flickering firelight, he saw a shadow move. “I’m awake,” he said, glad of the company, and then, when he realized who was keeping vigil, his smile flashed, sudden, radiant. “I’d almost given up on you, lad,” he confessed, and Llelo moved forward, sat beside him on the bed.
(omission)
Llywelyn was quiet for some moments. “Of all the books of the Scriptures, I’ve always found the most comfort in Ecclesiastes. It tells us that time and chance happen to all men—“
“I know what it says, that everything has its season, its time—even death. Is that what you’d have me believe, Grandpapa, that it is your time?”
“Yes.” Llywelyn shoved a pillow behind his shoulders. The pain was back—by now an old and familiar foe—spreading down his arm, up to his neck. But he did not want the boy to know. He found a smile, said, “It has been more than three years, after all. Joanna grows impatient—and I’ve never been one to keep a lady waiting.”
Llelo’s head jerked up. “How can you do that? How can you jest about dying?”
He sounded angry. Llywelyn looked at him, at last said quietly, “What other way is there?”
Without warning, Llelo’s eyes filled with tears. He sought without success to blink them back, then felt his grandfather’s hand on his.
“Try not to grieve too much, lad. I’ve not been cheated; I’ve had a long life, with more than my share of joys. I sired sons and daughters. No man had better friends. I found two women to love, and a fair number to bed with. And I die knowing that Wales is in good hands…”
Llelo frowned. “Davydd?” he mumbled and his grandfather nodded.
“Yes, Davydd….and you, Llelo.”
He heard the boy’s intake of breath. “Me?”
“Davydd has no son. God may yet bless him with one. But if not, he’ll need an heir. And in all of Christendom, he could do no better than you, Llelo.”
As young as he was, Llelo had learned some hard lessons in self-control. But he’d never felt the need for defenses with his grandfather and Llywelyn could see the boy’s confusion, could see the conflict of pride and excitement and guilt.
Llywelyn shifted his position; the pain was starting to ease somewhat. He was very tired and not at all sure that he should have shared his dream with the boy. But then Llelo said, “Do you truly have so much faith in me?” and there was wonderment in his voice.
Llywelyn swallowed with difficulty. He nodded, then leaned forward and gathered his grandson into his arms. Llelo clung tightly; he made no sound, but Llywelyn could feel him trembling. “I’d be lying if I said I had no regrets, Llelo. But I was not lying when I told you I believe it is my time.” After a long silence, he said, very softly, “I should have liked, though, to have seen the man you will become.”
* * *
April 11th, 1471 was also the day upon which the Londoners opened the gates of their city to Edward IV, just a month after he’d ended his exile by landing on the Yorkshire coast with his brother Richard and a small band of supporters. Before another month would pass, the Earl of Warwick would die at Barnet Heath, the Lancastrian army would be routed at Tewkesbury, and Edward would face no further challenges to his sovereignty. Sadly, he himself would do what his enemies could not—ruin his health and doom his dynasty with his premature death.

Death of a King

I am cheating a bit in recycling an old post, but it is six years old, so I am gambling that none of you have memories scary-good enough to remember it. Readers often ask me if I have favorite characters and of course I do, though I am not sure if a writer should admit that. It is rather like a mother confiding that she loves Johnny more than little Suzie. But if I were to compile a list of favorite characters, Edward IV would definitely be on that list, for he was great fun to write about. I was charmed by his sense of humor and his refusal to take himself that seriously, which made for some lively scenes with Elizabeth Woodville, who took herself very, very seriously indeed. So here is that resurrected post, the cyberspace cobwebs having been dusted off.

The Yorkist king, Edward IV, died on April 9th, 1483, just weeks from his forty-first birthday. We do not know the exact cause of death, though pneumonia has been suggested, and it has also been suggested that his health had deteriorated because of his self-indulgent lifestyle; Philippe de Commines claimed it was apoplexy. I saw no reason to doubt Mancini’s report that he’d caught a chill while boating on the river and it grew progressively worse. He lingered for ten days before dying, and his death would have dramatic repercussions. Had he not died so prematurely, the history of England would have been drastically different, for had he lived until his eldest son and heir came of age, I do not think there would have been a Tudor dynasty, which would have been catastrophic for screen writers and historical novelists, and not so good for a playwright named Shakespeare, either. I have always seen Edward as one of those men who were at their best when things were at their worst and vice versa. Historians have differed in their assessment of his reign, but I can say for a certainty that he was great fun to write about. He was buried at Windsor in the Chapel of St George; sadly, his tomb of black marble was never completed, for his dynasty would not long survive him. Here is Edward’s death scene in Sunne, page 662-663
* * *
“You’d best prepare yourself, my lady. It’ll not be long.”
She knew he meant to be kind, but she had to fight the urge to spit at him, to scream that he was wrong, that she didn’t want to hear it. She touched her fingers again to her father’s face, and as she did, his eyes opened. They were glazed a brilliant blue with fever, were sunken back in his head. But they were lucid, looked at her with full awareness for the first time in hours.
“Bess….”
“Yes, Papa, yes! I’m right here.”
“Sorry….so sorry….”
“For what, Papa? You’ve nothing to be sorry about, nothing at all.” She could see him straining to speak, and knew she should urge him to be still, but she could not; these last moments of coherent communication were too precious to lose.
“Sweet Bess….so loved.” He made an uncertain movement; she knew he was searching for her hand and quickly laced her fingers through his.
“Don’t worry, Papa. Please don’t worry.”
“Do you know….what be the worst….worst sins?”
She bent closer, not sure if she’d heard him correctly. “No, Papa. What be the worst sins?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, in what she knew to be the last smile she’d ever see him give.
“The worst be,” he whispered, “those about be found out.”
Bess didn’t understand. “Rest now, Papa. It will be all right for us, truly it will. Rest now.”
* * *

April is the cruelest month....

“April is the cruelest month….” So spoke the poet, T.S. Eliott, accusing the spring of stirring up unwelcome memories and pain. But April is also the cruelest month for those of us who love medieval history and write about it. An alarming number of my characters breathed their last in the month of April. Eleanor of Aquitaine. Llywelyn Fawr. Edward IV. Richard the Lionheart. And now Baldwin, the King of Jerusalem, whom you’ll get to meet in The Land Beyond the Sea. Trying to put a positive spin on it, this high casualty count did allow me to write some dramatic death scenes, one of which I am posting below. April 6th must have been one of the most heartbreaking days of Eleanor of Aquitaine’s long, eventful life, and one of the happiest for her youngest son, John.

On April 6, 1199 at 7 PM, Richard I of England, AKA the Lionheart, died at the age of forty-one eleven days after he’d been shot by a crossbow at the siege of Chalus, a wound brought about by his own carelessness, for he’d neglected to wear his hauberk and his legendary luck finally ran out. It was not an easy death, for gangrene is a painful way to die. Eleanor was with him as he drew his last breath, having raced from Fontevrault Abbey to Chalus after getting word of his fatal injury. His queen, Berengaria, was not.
A King’s Ransom, pages 597-599
* * *
Richard’s eyes opened when she took his hand in hers. He’d been sure she’d get there in time, for she’d never let him down, never. “So sorry, Maman….” So many regrets. That he’d not made peace with his father. That he’d not been able to free the Holy City from the Saracens. That Philip could not have been Berenguela’s. That the French king had not drowned in the Epte. That he’d taken the time to put on his hauberk. That his mother must now watch him die.
She held his hand against her cheek. “You’ve been shriven, Richard?”
“Yes….So many sins….Took half a day….”
He was dying as he lived, and that made it so much harder for those who loved him. But then she remembered what she’d been told about his father’s wretched last hours. After learning that John had betrayed him, he’d turned his face to the wall and had not spoken again. Only as his fever burned higher had he cried out, “Shame upon a conquered king.” An anguished epitaph for a life that had once held such bright promise. No, better that Richard laugh at Death than die as Harry had. His body was wracked with pain, but at least he was not suffering Harry’s agony of spirit. She could not have borne that.
(omission)
Time had no meaning any longer. She assumed hours were passing, but she refused all offers of food or drink. How long would God torment him like this? Leaning over, she kissed his forehead. “You can stop fighting now, my dearest. Your race is done.”
He’d not spoken for some time and she was not sure he could hear her, but then he said, “Did….I….win?”
“Yes, Richard, you did. You kept the faith.” She did not remember the rest of the scriptural verse. She would later wonder how she could have sounded so calm, so composed. But it was the last gift she could give him. “Go to God, my beloved son.”
After that, he was still. They could hear church bells chiming in the distance. Somewhere Vespers was being rung, people were at Mass, life was going on. Andre had not thought there was a need for words of farewell, not between them. But now he found himself approaching the bed, suddenly afraid that he’d waited too long. “Richard.” He held his breath, then, until the other man opened his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said hoarsely. “You will not be forgotten. A hundred years from now, men will be sitting around campfires and telling the legends of the Lionheart.”
The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched. “Only….a hundred years?” he whispered, and Andre and Eleanor saw his last smile through a haze of hot tears.
* * *

The Twice-Hanged Man

I know many of my readers also enjoy Priscilla Royal’s medieval mystery series set in England during the reign of Edward I. Since there has been a change in the publication schedule of her next book, The Twice-hanged Man, I wanted to pass that information on. This mystery was originally to be published in February by Source-books/Poisoned Pen Press, but there has been a delay. It is now expected to be published during the first week of August, both the hardcover and trade paperback. The e-book will be available at the same time or shortly thereafter. I am not sure if a pub date has been set yet for Australia, but will pass it on as soon as we know. They have recently decided to go with another book jacket, so if you would like to see the original cover, below is the link to Priscilla’s website. The Twice-Hanged Man had its genesis in the account of a medieval man who actually survived being hanged. I was fortunate enough to be able to read the galley proofs and I think it is one of her best yet, with some very unexpected plot twists sure to delight her readers. I was also very interested in the Welsh-English hostility that was always simmering just beneath the surface of daily life in the Marches—and yes, most of my sympathies went to the Welsh! http://www.priscillaroyal.com/

My favorite queen

Even though I am a few days late, I couldn’t ignore the passing of my favorite queen. So here is a post about the ultimate survivor.

April 1st, 1204 is the death date of one of the most remarkable women of the Middle Ages, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was queen of England and France, yet she is known to posterity by neither title, and I think that would have pleased her, for her love of her duchy was the lodestar of her life. She was in her eightieth year, a vast age for her time and a respectable one for ours, having outlived two husbands and enemies beyond counting. But she also outlived eight of her ten children, including her favorite son. She endured much tragedy in her life, but surely one of her worst ordeals must have been to watch helplessly as Richard paid in pain for his earthly sins. She rallied, though, to gain the throne for her youngest son, John. Yet I wonder if she believed their dynasty would survive, for she knew that John, for all of his cleverness and ambition, had some serious character flaws, with one that would prove fatal to a king—his inability to trust others, which made it impossible for them to trust him.
I did not dramatize her death in Here Be Dragons; John and Joanna learned of it from a distance. Since Dragons, Eleanor has taken a starring role in five more of my historical novels, plus all four of my mysteries. So I felt that I owed her a death scene and I wrote one for her in A King’s Ransom. It occurred in the epilogue, so I gave her the last word. I suspect she would have enjoyed that. Here it is, A King’s Ransom, page 657
* * *
Richenza slipped quietly into the chamber, holding a candle aloft. At her wordless query, Dame Amaria shook her head, saying that the queen had not regained consciousness. “But she was talking, my lady.”
“She’s done that before,” Richenza said sadly. She yearned for some last lucid moments with her grandmother, but Eleanor’s fevered murmurings were incoherent, not meant for them.
“This was different, my lady. She said ‘Harry’ and ‘Richard’ so very clearly. It was ….it was as if she were speaking to them, that they were right here in the chamber with us. The doctor insisted it was the fever, but I do not think so. See for yourself.”
Richenza turned toward the bed and her eyes widened. It had been a long time since her grandmother had looked as she did now—at peace. It was as if all the pain and grief of her last years had been erased, and the candlelight was kind, hinting at the great beauty she’d once been in the sculptured hollows of her cheekbones and the flushed color restored by fever. Leaning over, Richenza took the dying woman’s hand.
“Grandame?” Eleanor did not respond, but Richenza was suddenly sure she was listening to other voices, for the corners of her mouth were curving in what could have been a smile.
* * *
Writing about Eleanor was great fun and I am glad I can still do so in my mysteries. My one regret was that I was not allowed to call her by the name she herself would have used: Alienor. Elizabeth Chadwick was luckier than me in that regard and what better way to end this post than to remind readers that Elizabeth’s novels about Eleanor are out there, too, for that shrinking minority who’ve not yet read them. It can be fun for readers to see how different writers interpret a historical character or happening, especially when they know the authors in question take their research very seriously, as both Elizabeth and I do. Readers have this opportunity, too, when it comes to Gloriana, or as I jokingly call her, the only good Tudor. Margaret George and Susan Kay have both written superb novels about Elizabeth Tudor. Margaret’s book covers the last years of Elizabeth’s reign and Susan Kay’s book encompass the entirety of the Tudor queen’s turbulent life.

More Game of Thrones and medieval humor

I have another Game of Thrones story for my fellow fans, this one a sometimes snarky recap of the preceding seven seasons, not a bad idea in light of all the high drama and betrayals and the staggering body count. I will put the link at the end of this post. Now…this next item is for everyone. Medieval humor is not easy to find, but the other night I came across something that my friend and fellow writer Stephanie Churchill had sent me a while back. It made me laugh then and again when I re-read it, so I wanted to share it here—and if you don’t think it is as funny as I did, blame Stephanie.

After a long journey, a knight returned to his lord’s castle with prisoners, bags of gold, and much plunder. The lord was naturally delighted and said, “Tell me of your exploits.”
The knight said, “I have been robbing and stealing on your behalf for weeks, my lord, burning the villages and lands of your enemies in the North.”
The lord gasped in horror. “But I have no enemies in the North!”
The knight considered that for a moment. “Well, you do now.”

And here is the link to the Game of Thrones story. https://www.usatoday.com/story/life/t...

Games of Thrones, best to worst, and Gloriana

This is for my fellow Game of Throners. Someone actually took the time and trouble to rate all 67 episodes. Since it is obviously very subjective, it is sure to have people disagreeing with it. For me, almost any scene with Tyrion in it is a winner. Same for the dragons.
https://www.usatoday.com/story/life/t...
I know there are still some of you who have steadfastly refused to scramble onto the Game of Thrones bandwagon, and I am in awe of your fortitude. Not many of us have the will power to resist a global phenomenon. But for you, I have a Today in History post that is only a few days late.
March 24, 1603 was the date of death for the woman I always call (with a smile) “the only good Tudor,” Elizabeth I. She was sixty-nine and her death does not seem to have been a peaceful one. For a powerful account of her last years, I highly recommend Margaret George’s Elizabeth I, which I can’t resist thinking of as The Lioness in Winter.

The divorce that changed history

I should be working on a map of Outremer and Tripoli, but it is more fun to play hooky again and post about one of our favorite medieval queens, the remarkable Eleanor of Aquitaine. So here is a catch-up post about a very eventful date in Eleanor’s life, one that literally did change history.
One of history’s most consequential divorces occurred on this date. On March 21, 1152, Louis Capet and Eleanor of Aquitaine’s marriage was annulled at Beaugency on the grounds of consanguinity. Think how history would have changed if Louis had elected to stay the course. If Eleanor had not given birth to a son, France could have had a Queen Marie, as the Salic Law was not in force then. There would have been no Philippe Capet, no St Louis, no Philippe the Fair—shedding no tears here, folks. But there would have been no Plantagenets as we know them! Yes, Henry II would still have become king—most likely. But without Eleanor’s Aquitaine, maybe not? And without Eleanor as his queen, no Devil’s Brood. Take her DNA out of the mix, and the Plantagenet dynasty would have been an entirely different breed of cat. If the Chaos Theory is applied (the argument that a butterfly’s flapping wings could give rise to a hurricane) , history as we know it would have been utterly altered. For better or worse? Who knows? But my history would definitely have been changed for the worse without Richard III to write about. I’d have still been a lawyer—shudder. So I shall drink a toast today to the Beaugency annulment, thanking my lucky stars that Louis set Eleanor free to hook up with Henry just two months later. As Eleanor says to her sons in The Lion in Winter, “Such, my darlings, is the role that sex plays in history.”

A king's legendary luck finally runs out

I’ve been called upon to do some unexpected work on the new book, but I had to play hooky long enough to post this, for today was a very significant date in medieval history and in my books. This was also one of the most challenging deaths I’ve had to write about, for it was such a drawn-out, dreadful way to die. I was very lucky to have my own medical consultant, Dr John Phillips, to guide me through Richard’s deathbed suffering. So…..this post is a few years old, but it includes a scene from a King’s Ransom and I couldn’t resist sharing it again.
On Friday, March 26, 1199, Richard I was struck by a crossbow bolt as he inspected the siege at the castle of Chalus Chabrol in the Limousin. I am giving away no plot twists for new readers to report that his was a very painful death and a needless one, easily avoided if only he’d bothered to wear his hauberk. I suspect that many who loved Richard were furious with him even as they mourned him, for his sudden death changed history in so many ways, both for countries and for individuals. A brief scene from Ransom, pages 576-577
* * *
The sky along the horizon was glowing like the embers of a dying fire as this last Friday in March ebbed away. There was still enough daylight remaining for Richard to assess Chalus’s weaknesses, though. (omission)
One of Richard’s sergeants had set up his large rectangular shield, and he and Mercadier were standing behind it as they debated where the castle seemed most vulnerable to an assault. They were soon joined by William de Braose. (omission) Glancing at Richard’s crossbow, he said, “You’ll get few chances to make use of that, sire. Our crossbowmen have kept the castle defenders off the walls for much of the day, aside from one lunatic by the gatehouse.”
Richard arched a brow. “Why call him a lunatic, Will?”
“See for yourself, my liege.” The Marcher lord gestured and Richard squinted until he located the lone man on the castle battlements When he did, he burst out laughing, for this enemy crossbowman was using a large frying pan as a shield, deflecting the bolts coming his way with surprising dexterity. De Braose and Mercadier were not surprised by his reaction, for they’d known this was just the sort of mad gallantry to appeal to Richard. But because chivalry was as alien a tongue to them as the languages spoken in Cathay, they saw the knave wielding a frying pan as nothing more than a nuisance to be eliminated, sooner rather than later.
When the crossbowman used his makeshift shield to turn aside another bolt, Richard gave him a playful, mocking salute. He was still laughing when the crossbowman aimed at him and he was slow, therefore, in ducking for cover behind his shield. The bolt struck him in the left shoulder, just above his collarbone. The impact was great enough to stagger him, although he managed to keep his balance, grabbing the edge of the shield to steady himself. There was no pain, not yet, but he’d suffered enough wounds to know that would not last. His first coherent thought was relief that dusk was fast falling, for when he glanced around hastily, it was clear that none of his men had seen him hit. Only de Braose and Mercadier had been close enough to see what had happened, and while their dismay was obvious even in the fading light, he knew they were too battle-wise to cry out, to let others know that their king had just been shot.
* * *
It was perhaps inevitable that sooner or later, Richard’s recklessness would outrun his fabled luck, but it is interesting that a contributing factor in his death was his sense of humor; had he not been so amused by the crossbowman’s frying pan shield, he might have been able to duck in time. Another of his flaws, his impulsiveness, would also play a role in what followed, as those of you who’ve read Ransom will remember. And yes, this is the same infamous William de Braose who became one of Johns’ primary supporters until their fatal falling-out, dramatized in Here Be Dragons.